


Chicken Noodle Soup and Other Household Remedies

by seraphina_snape



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (hint: he doesn't like it), Awkward Flirting, Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, I talk about snot in this, M/M, Pre-Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, Sick Fic, and vomit and stuff, basically disgusting cold symptoms that werewolf Derek hasn't had to deal with ever before, sort of, stiles has a cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/pseuds/seraphina_snape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"They always make soup when someone's sick. In the movies."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>AKA Stiles is sick, Derek is there, and he has no idea how to take care of a coughing and sneezing human. Plus, he's not entirely sure why he <i>wants</i> to, so there is that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Noodle Soup and Other Household Remedies

**Author's Note:**

> Last week, I had a really bad cold. I wished I had my own Derek to make me chicken noodle soup. :p
> 
> This story is set in the summer between season 2 and 3. No warnings, except maybe cold-induced talking about snot and other disgusting elements of having a cold.
> 
> Edit (Dec 21, 2014): sa_brina86 made this pretty fic banner for me! ♥ Thank you!

Scott is nowhere to be found - Derek isn't sure if it's because he's _with_ Allison or because he's _not_ with her and moping about it - and Stiles isn't answering his cell phone, so the natural conclusion for Derek is to creep through the Stilinski's backyard and jump up to Stiles' bedroom window. 

He can hear Stiles' heartbeat, slightly elevated, and labored breathing and it's not the sort of labored breathing that comes with having some private time, so Derek has absolutely no qualms about opening the window and climbing in without using the ridiculous knock Stiles insists upon. Derek has explained on numerous occasions that the complicated knock Stiles had come up with to make sure it was a friendly werewolf at his window and not the newest threat was a complete waste. Anyone meaning Stiles harm wouldn't stop to knock politely. If they were in enough of a hurry to get at Stiles, they might not even bother to open the window instead of just barreling through the glass. Stiles hadn't appreciated Derek's candor at the time and Derek hadn't appreciated having to learn a stupid knock. 

Stiles is awake, but the only way Derek can tell is by his heartbeat. He doesn't move a muscle when Derek drops to the floor in front of the window and stays down in the half-crouch, scanning the room for reasons why Stiles has a hard time breathing. There's no one in the room - no one in the house - besides him and Stiles. There is, however, an alarmingly large pile of used tissues on the floor next to Stiles' bed as well as the faint smell of medicine coming from a glass on Stiles' bedside table. 

Derek focuses his ears and realizes that Stiles' breathing isn't labored as much as it is congested. 

"You're sick." 

Stiles cracks one eye open and glares at Derek. "No shit," he croaks. Then he sits up rapidly, his body already shaking as he coughs. Stiles has one hand pressed to his forehead, the other held in front of his mouth as he coughs so hard it turns into a dry heave. 

Derek is at his side in a split second, but he has absolutely no idea what to do next. Should he hit Stiles' back? Get him some water? Call a doctor?

The cough eases up and Stiles fumbles for the box of tissues on his nightstand. Derek plucks a tissue from the box and hands it to him. Stiles spits into the tissue and carelessly drops it onto the pile on the floor. 

Derek follows it with his eyes, feeling slightly disgusted, before turning back to Stiles. "Are you okay?" 

Stiles glares at him again and settles back into his pillow. He's deathly pale, with red splotches on his cheeks and feverish, bloodshot eyes. The area around his nose and mouth is irritated and bright pink. 

"What do you want?" Stiles asks and Derek nearly flinches at the hoarse and nasal quality of his usually smooth and dark voice. "If it's research, you're gonna have to wait until my brain feels less mushy." 

"It's fine," Derek says, waving him off. "It wasn't that important."

Stiles looks like he wants to make a wisecrack, but before he can get a word out, a strange look crosses his face and he turns away to sneeze violently. Trained behavior or instinct has Stiles throw up his hands just in time which is both good and bad. Good because he's not spraying his whole bedroom with snot, bad because he catches it all in his hands. And Derek, curse his werewolf senses, gets the full HD technicolor surround-sound experience while standing right next to him. 

"Ugh, _disgusting_ ," Stiles mumbles, grabbing another couple of tissues to wipe his hands and face. 

Derek stares at him. 

"What?" Stiles asks when he becomes aware of the scrutiny. 

"Aren't you going to wash your hands?" Derek asks. 

Stiles scoffs, but the effect is lost when it sounds more like a plugged sink blubbering than the derisive scoff he was probably aiming for. "I would, man, I totally would. If I could stand up, let alone make it to the bathroom where the sink is. Besides, I'm already horrifyingly disgusting, so what's a little snot? It's not like I'm gonna get more sick from my own germs." 

Now that Stiles has mentioned it, Derek is aware of all the smells in the room. Overlaying Stiles' regular teenage boy smells and the other smells of the room - old sweat and spunk, mostly - is the fresher scent of infection and sweat tinged with sickness. 

"Yeah, you might wanna turn your nose off until further notice," Stiles says, noticing Derek's scrunched up nose. "Possibly your ears and eyes, too, because there was puking earlier and I guarantee for nothing." 

Derek makes a face but doesn't comment on it. "Do you need anything?" 

Stiles gives him a doubtful look. 

"Water?" 

Stiles continues to just look at him with a slightly puzzled expression on his face. 

"Do you want me to call your dad? A doctor?"

"Dude, I'm fine," Stiles says, interrupted by coughs. "Okay, so I feel like I'm dying and I kind of wish I was just so it'd be over already, but it's just a cold. A bad one, granted, but I'll be fine in a few days. A week, tops." 

"You said you were too weak to reach the bathroom." 

"No." Stiles looks annoyed but Derek can't tell if it's with himself or with him. "I mean, yes, I might have implied that. But what I meant was that I'm saving my strength for when I actually need to go use the bathroom. I'm not wasting it to wash my hands when - in all likelihood - the same thing is going to happen again within the hour." 

Derek suppresses a shudder. He does not want to witness a sneeze like that again. But at the same time, he doesn't want to leave Stiles alone. What if something happens? Stiles is in no way fit to fight back. He probably can't even call for help in his current state. 

"Soup." The thought comes out of nowhere and it nearly blindsides Derek. When he'd been seven, his younger sister Lizzie had become sick. Their mom had made soup and cuddled with her on the couch and leached the pain off of her. (Derek, savvy enough at age seven to realize that he - as a werewolf - wouldn't get sick, but not savvy enough to realize his mom would know this too, had faked being sick a little while later. His mom had indulged him though, running her warm fingers through his hair before sending him to the couch to wait for his soup.)

Stiles gives him a puzzled look. "What?"

"I should make soup." 

Stiles frowns. "Are you feeling okay? Are you sure werewolves can't catch anything? Because it sounds like you're--"

"They always make soup when someone's sick," Derek says. "In the movies," he adds, not up to explaining his half-forgotten childhood memories. 

Derek has no idea how to explain this sudden urge to take care of Stiles, mostly because he has no idea where it's coming from. They're not pack, not exactly. They're allies, but more. Stiles is not his friend, but neither is he just a stranger who knows enough secrets about the him to be more familiar than a stranger. He has no idea what they are or how making soup for Stiles fits into anything, so he does what he usually does when he has no clue and no intention to explain himself. He growls and heads downstairs, leaving Stiles puzzling it out in his room.

His senses make it easy to sniff out the pantry and Derek locates a can of chicken noodle soup without problems. But his nose doesn't exactly help him find the pots and bowls, so he starts opening random cabinets in the kitchen until he finds the pots in a cupboard next to the stove and a bowl on the other side of the kitchen. Derek briefly considers microwaving the soup but he always feels that food tastes less good coming out of a microwave. That, and he could use the few minutes it'll take to heat up the soup to try and figure out his subconscious need to play caretaker to Stiles Stilinski of all people. 

Ten minutes later, when Derek is carrying a breakfast tray he found stuffed behind the coffee maker upstairs to Stiles' room, he is no closer to figuring out his own mind than he is to knowing what to do about the alpha pack situation. Or the Peter situation. Or the Scott situation. Basically, he's clueless and trying not to show it. 

"Seriously?" Stiles asks when Derek puts the tray down on the bedside table. 

"Sit up," Derek said. 

Stiles sits up and weakly tugs at his pillow to get it into a more supportive position, but he doesn't seem to have enough strength to drag it up where he wants it. Derek can't see any other pillows he could use to prop Stiles up while he eats, so he does the first thing that comes to mind: he slides into the bed behind Stiles, legs on either side of him. 

Stiles make a noise that's somewhere between surprised, affronted and confused. Derek doesn't react to Stiles elbowing him in the ribs or to his spoken protests. Derek's given up on trying to find logic in his behavior. At this point, he's running on instinct, and his instincts are telling him to make sure Stiles eats, rests and gets better. 

"You know what? Fine," Stiles says. He leans back against Derek's chest. "I feel like shit and your internal werewolf furnace feels nice and you have soup." He sends Derek a look over his shoulder. "Just so you know, when I no longer feel like curling up into a ball of misery to wait for my untimely death, I will mockingly call you Florence Wolfingale for this." 

Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment. He can feel the headboard of Stiles' bed dig into his back and it's about as uncomfortable as feeling Stiles' sweaty back and his raised temperature against his chest. Derek ignores it all in favor of balancing the tray on his knees. Stiles bats his hand away when he reaches for the spoon to feed Stiles - _and really_ , Derek asks himself, _feeding Stiles? What the hell is up with that?_ \- and Derek lets him. Stiles eats the whole bowl of soup and the slice of bread Derek brought along with it, but he doesn't even attempt to drink more than a sip of the orange juice. 

"It has extra vitamin C in it," Derek says. Very good for the immune system, at least according to the juice's label.

"Nope," he says when Derek wants to make him drink the whole glass. "The acid in this is burning my sore throat and it hurts enough without pouring more hurt on top, thanks. I'll just take some more medication and sleep for the rest of the day." 

Derek helps him measure a cup of the strong-smelling liquid and then waits until Stiles grows limp and heavy in his arms, his head lolling against Derek's chin, before he siphons off some of the pain he can feel in Stiles' chest. The green and white package of Stiles' medicine promises 'instant relief' and 'easier breathing' and Derek hopes Stiles will attribute any improvements to the meds rather than him. 

He waits until Stiles is asleep before sliding out from behind him. He takes the tray downstairs and cleans the kitchen, putting everything back where it belongs. Back in Stiles' room, he contemplates cleaning up a bit - at least the pile of tissues - but he doesn't want the sheriff to know he's been here. Not to mention that it's seriously disgusting. Some of the tissues are still wet and kind of see-through. Derek has never been so glad to be a werewolf and completely unaffected by most human illnesses. He's not sure he could deal with that much snot, not even his own. 

With one last look at Stiles, Derek slides out of the window. He doesn't go far, though, circling around the block before settling into a tree in the Stilinski backyard. He waits until the sheriff gets home, satisfied that someone is there for Stiles in case something happens. 

It's later that night when Derek's phone vibrates with a new text message. He isn't asleep - his mind is still too restless, milling over everything that happened that day - so he turns and reaches for his phone. 

_Hey, Florence, thanks for playing my doting nurse - my fever broke. I'm still disgusting and mucus-y, but I no longer feel like dying._

Derek feels one corner of his mouth lift in a half-smile and yeah, he's going to have to get control over that or Stiles will walk all over him. More than he already does, anyway.

_Does that mean you don't want me to come over again tomorrow to make you more soup?_

Derek hits the send button before he can reconsider and then resents himself for it when there's no immediate answer from Stiles. What is he thinking? Stiles is sick. What's more, he and Stiles are not texting buddies. They're no kind of buddies at all. 

Stiles replies twelve minutes later, saying that yes, Stiles would like more soup the next day and that Derek should feel free to make him soup at any time regardless of his health status. 

The next day, he makes Stiles more soup and they make plans to find Erica and Boyd and free them from the alpha pack's clutches. Nothing is really different, but it feels like something has shifted between them, taking them from reluctant allies to something that's a lot closer to friends. It's exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Maybe Derek can't exactly define what his relationship with Stiles is and in which direction it's going, but something in his chest settles that Derek hadn't realized was unsettled in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story - thank you for reading!


End file.
